


OTP Challenge Part 1 - Suggestions and Surprises

by orphan_account



Series: Mediscout OTP Challenge [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Dinner, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hand Wraps, M/M, Office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old work, newly uploaded to AO3.</p>
<p>This mostly just deals with Medic and Scout getting to know each other. The prompt was "hand holding," and I went a little overboard with it. </p>
<p>First fic I ever wrote for this pairing. I've done many more since.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Scout whined at him, eyes wide and flashing with fear as Medic’s gloved fingers dug painfully into his shoulder. “Look, I ain’t gonna steal from ya. Why the hell would I? There’s nothin’ interestin’ in your desk, just knives ‘n’ bottles ‘n’ shit like that. Came to bring ya dinner.” Scout gestured with his free hand to a tray that he’d set on a nearby operating table, complete with a shiny metal lid. “Seein’ as ya were sleepin’ an’ all. Ya did good in the battle, no reason to let ya go hungry, right?”</p>
<p>Medic was not convinced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	OTP Challenge Part 1 - Suggestions and Surprises

 

Unprofessionals, thought Medic. Every last one of them.

From the Soldier (a raving lunatic, and an ideal lobotomy subject) to the Demoman (how did his liver still function?) and the Spy (filled to the brim with puerile insults), it was temptingly easy for the doctor to stand atop a hill of the enemy’s decimated corpses and gaze down at his fellow team members with scorn.

The Heavy Weapons Guy, as the taciturn Russian called himself, had some promise as a durable and formidable battle partner; the Engineer came the closest to actual sanity, as far as Medic could estimate, and he contributed strongly to the team’s defenses. But the rest— Pyro was a horrifying enigma, Sniper usually smelled like an exhibit at the local zoo, and Scout…

Where to begin with Scout?

First of all, the boy was obviously too young to be hired. He couldn’t have been older than his mid-twenties, a sharp and jarring contrast to the other mercs who had advanced well into adulthood, if not necessarily maturity. What sort of absurd stunts had Scout pulled in order to secure the job? Sob stories about his impoverished mother and seven brothers, perhaps?

No, Medic realized, Scout wasn’t the type to resort to sob stories. Maybe he had beaten the hiring agents into submission, or jabbered at them until they offered him sums of money in exchange for a moment of blessed silence.

That too. Not only was Scout unacquainted with the concept of subtlety — his battle tactic was to repeatedly hit the enemy with any available object; hardly the next Napoleon — but he never, ever shut his mouth. Upon arriving at the team’s base, Scout had distinguished himself by producing a constant and intolerable stream of noise, chattering at the nearest available victim until something new caught his attention.

Medic had found himself on the receiving end of many of these tirades. “Hey, Doc, lookit dis,” the young merc would crow, swinging his newest bat against his wrapped palm with a metallic _thwack_ , wearing that insufferable buck-toothed grin. “Newest thing outta Mann Co. Lookit it, lightweight ‘n solid, lets me run so fast I can triple jump— hey, guess what, Doc? You could oobercharge me sometime ‘n let me see how much damage I can do with dis _then_! Just _try_ ta keep up with me—”

Medic usually made it halfway down the corridor before Scout noticed his absence.

\- - -

The team had sustained heavy losses that day. While Respawn was pushed to the brink of its capacity, Medic had worked overtime to dash around the battlefield and let the Medigun’s healing power flow into his wounded teammates. At the end of the day, every muscle in his body ached - more due to the sheer exertion of the day’s work than any direct damage he’d sustained, though being half squashed when Heavy crashed into him had hardly helped. Fortunately, the minigun had silenced the opposing team’s laughter.

According to the bulletin board, Soldier was cooking the meals for the team that week. Not wanting to add food poisoning to his current list of ailments, Medic staggered into his office and unstrapped the heavy medipack, dumping it straight onto his desk and slumping into his chair. A flock of doves scattered off and fluttered into the air, shedding a swirl of fine white feathers.

He did not open his eyes to observe.

\- - -

Roughly an hour later, Medic returned to consciousness, wincing and slowly opening his eyes.

Scout occupied his entire field of vision.

The fast little merc was leaning over Medic’s chair, peering at the insensate doctor in wide-eyed curiosity, dog tags jingling as he tilted his head to get a closer look. Scout prodded his cheek as the German stared at him slack-jawed. “Doc?”

In a flash of insight, Medic comprehended the situation, escaping his exhaustion-induced haze. He leapt to his feet and shoved Scout backward into the desk, taking a bit of grim pleasure from the yelp and the wince the young runner let out as his head slammed into the hard surface. “ _Vhat_ are you doing here? Have you come to spy on me and raid my desk?”

"Aw, come _on_ , Doc! It ain’t that.” Scout whined at him, eyes wide and flashing with fear as Medic’s gloved fingers dug painfully into his shoulder. “Look, I ain’t gonna steal from ya. Why the hell would I? There’s nothin’ interestin’ in your desk, just knives ‘n’ bottles ‘n’ shit like that. Came to bring ya dinner.” Scout gestured with his free hand to a tray that he’d set on a nearby operating table, complete with a shiny metal lid. “Seein’ as ya were sleepin’ an’ all. Ya did good in the battle, no reason to let ya go hungry, right?”

Medic was not convinced. Scout’s motives were simple, but they were never so conscientious. He continued to simmer with exasperation, dark eyebrows knit and brow furrowed as he scowled down at his captive. His glasses had slid down his nose as he slept, and he pushed them back into place with the flick of a finger, regaining his typical stern look. “And how did you get into my office, Scout? Has zhe Spy taught you how to pick locks now?”

"Easy." Scout glanced towards the ceiling, searching for an answer among the dingy ceiling tiles. How the hell did blood stains get up _there?_ “Ya left the door open. Spy hates me, don’t kid yerself. Can ya let me go now?”

"—Fine." Lacking a compelling reason to keep Scout trapped, Medic pulled away and let go, rolling his shoulders and letting out a heavy exasperated breath. What a _nuisance_ of a teammate — and he’d had the nerve to stare at Medic like that while he slept. Unforgivable.

Scout scrambled away at once, putting a safe distance between himself and Medic — frickin’ crazy German doc, probably wanted to slice him open and see what made him tick.

Nonetheless, Scout fetched the lidded metal tray and presented it to Medic in a show of cooperation, a sudden smile flashing across his face.

A striped, furry raccoon tail lay limply over the edge of the tray, trapped between the plate and the lid.

As Scout set down the tray, grinning from ear to ear like a particularly wicked type of imp, the deceased creature’s tail brushed across a stack of Medic’s documents, leaving several hairs behind. “Soldier’s newest dinner specialty. He had too many pet ‘coons, or somethin’. Said it tastes just fine if you use enough salt and ketchup.”

Medic was rarely affected by the gruesome sights he saw — he had an iron stomach and a strong will — but _this_ monstrosity made him recoil in sudden nauseous horror, sinking back into his chair. The thing was probably rabid, or had been during its brief and ill-fated life. And he was expected to _eat_ it. _“_ _Scout._ Do you mean to tell me zhat zhe madman actually _cooked_ — and _served_ — …”

Scout beamed, taking pure glee in Medic’s reaction. “C’mon, Doc, what’s wrong with it? Wilderness cookin’!”

Medic put his head in his hands. He had not thought his career would end this way. He would rather have retired than dissolved into a fit of madness. Alas, a brilliant medical mind, ruined by the side effects of eating raccoon. Either that, or he had already gone mad and this was a hallucination. Medic was not sure which he preferred.

"Don’t ya wanna try—" Sensing that the joke was over, Scout finally gave in and plucked the lid from the tray with a flourish. "Naw, Doc, course he didn’t." Atop the tray sat a tattered and moth-eaten coonskin cap, which Medic stared at dumbly. Scout removed this, neatly placing it atop his own head in the style of Davy Crockett. "Got it from the Teufort gift shop. You’d be surprised what they got in backstock."

Medic gaped at him.

Beneath the coonskin cap sat a plate, neatly covered in foil to keep its contents safe from stray raccoon hairs. Scout plucked the foil off to reveal a nicely toasted sandwich, complete with a side of steamed vegetables — how conscientious, thought Medic. So they _had_ thought to serve something other than a ring-tailed predator. “C’mon, Doc, you don’t really think I’d let ya eat whatever Soldier made? It was some kinda casserole, but it smelled funny so I thought I’d make somethin’ for ya instead. I was gonna cook sauerkraut, but I dunno how, and I wasn’t sure you’d like it, so I went with carrots an’ peas instead, there was a bag of ‘em in the freezer. The sandwich’s roast beef. I smelled all the bags of meat in the fridge an’ that one was the best, an’ it isn’t even past the expiration date—”

Medic finally blinked, staring first at the plate and then at Scout, who stood proudly before him, raccoon hat perched atop his head like a grisly trophy. Oh, of _course_ it had been a joke. Scout’s sense of humor was just that warped. He felt a sudden surge of embarrassment at ever having believed it, though, to his credit, Soldier had done worse. “Vhat? You cooked somezhing for me zhat isn’t toxic?”

"Yeah, doc, I can cook, y’know. Ma taught me. I’m really good at cookin’ clam chowder, but I thought ya wouldn’t like dat, so I made a sandwich instead. Hey, don’t look at me like dat, it isn’t poisonous, I swear." Scout snatched the sandwich from a plate and took a bite, swallowing before Medic had a chance to stop him. "See? It’s delicious. —An’ it’s for you, yeah." Scout dropped the sandwich, catching sight of Medic’s sudden and ominous glare. "All yours."

Medic pushed past his bewilderment and his instinct to cross-examine Scout to discover his real motives, instead opening a drawer with the flick of his wrist and pulling out a fork. Late nights in the office often meant that he often ate alone, and a stash of silverware was the _least_ strange item in his desk drawer. He speared one of the carrots on the tray, lifting it to his mouth, chewing, swallowing — no, not poisonous at all, and correctly seasoned, at that.

He might even dare say he enjoyed it.

Scout grinned at him, eyes lit up as he stood and watched, fidgeting idly with the end of one of his hand wraps. Hey, look at that, he’d done somethin’ right, Medic didn’t hate him anymore. He wouldn’t say he felt guilty about the raccoon prank — Medic’s face had been priceless, he wouldn’t have traded that moment for a thousand cans of Bonk — but he was starting to actually like the doc. That was, when the doc wasn’t tryin’ to murder him.

Well, he’d started a while ago, if he was gonna be honest with himself. It was just that Medic had always acted like he was gonna slice Scout open if he even looked at him the wrong way, but that was how he acted towards everyone, except maybe Heavy but he couldn’t be rude to the guy who protected him in battle, could he? Medic had some kinda superiority complex going on, Scout was pretty sure of that. He probably got it from that one German philosophy book. Oober-somethin’, right? That Fred guy.

But now Medic was finishing the sandwich and looking at him like— what _was_ that expression? Nothin’ to do with knives, Scout was sure of that. If Medic had a ‘nice’ setting, this was it. He looked… well, kinda happy. Good thing Scout had brought the sandwich, otherwise he’d probably be havin’ the raccoon hat stuffed down his throat right now.

"Doc, is dat—" Scout circled the desk, peering at him in much the same way as before, except now the effect was ruined because he kept pushing the coon hat out of his eyes. It didn’t help that the thing was five sizes too large. "—is dat a _smile?”_

Medic glared, but his gaze was fixed keenly on Scout, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It von’t be if you don’t get avay from me.”

"Got it, doc." Scout hoisted himself onto an open space on the desk, leaning over and catching a precariously perched stack of papers before they could cascade to the floor. In the process, his handwrap caught on a small splinter jutting out from the desk, unraveling almost completely as he tried to yank it free. "Aw, shit."

Medic was polishing off the last of the vegetables, slicing them neatly with a scalpel and loading them onto his fork. He regarded Scout with interest as the young merc wound the bandage back around his palm and fingers. “Vhat are you doing?”

"Fixin’ my handwraps. Gotta have ‘em in place just in case I need to hit somebody over the head without hurtin’ myself, y’know?"

"Not like zhat, you aren’t. Zhey’ll come undone again in an hour." Medic set down his fork, gesturing for Scout to come closer. "Komm hier."

He tilted his head. “What d’ya mean?”

"Scout, it sounds exactly zhe same in both zhe languages." Medic’s fingers closed around Scout’s upper arm, that unexpected strength appearing again. " _Come here._ ”

"I know what ya said, just weren’t sure if ya meant it." Scout freed his hand and scooted off the desk, landing lightly on his feet, and weighed the odds of taking a new risk. Better now than never, right? Breath catching in his throat, he placed himself in Medic’s lap, sitting crosswise and offering his unbandaged hand for the German to inspect. Probably a stupid move, sure, but he’d pretended to give the doc a raccoon for dinner and hadn’t become Medic’s next dissection subject in the process. What was the worst that could happen?

Nothing, apparently. Medic steadfastly ignored the nature of Scout’s position, instead taking hold of the runner’s hand, gently poking and prodding at the joints and tendons. Then he began to rewrap the bandage with more care and caution than he’d shown all day. “Zhere. Around zhe palm, through zhe fingers— over, under…” For Scout’s benefit, he described each twist and turn the bandage took, finally securing it with a small knot beneath the fingers. “Like zhat. It von’t come loose, no matter how many skulls you decide to bash in vith zhat bat of yours.” It was the least Medic could do, to help the young mercenary stay safe in his ridiculous battle exploits. Scout probably needed all the help he could get.

Then again, perhaps not. As a matter of fact, Medic was finding it increasingly hard to tell which one of them was helping the other.

He decided not to think about the matter any further, in fear of actually finding the answer.

"Hey, thanks." Scout turned around in his lap, grinning at Medic and searching his face to decipher that expression. Somethin’ pleasant, he figured, but that smile wasn’t quite happy. A little too smug, maybe. He liked it, though. Liked it too much. "Wanna do the other one?"

"Nein, I zhink not." Medic had already shown enough weakness for one day. Better not to give Scout any ideas that might linger in his brain. "You have to know how to do zhis yourself."

"Been doin’ it fine for the last few years, doc. Just want ya to show me."

"Yes, but your method is not zhe same as mine, is it? My bandages do not come loose." Medic sighed, muttered something impolite under his breath in German, and took hold of Scout’s other hand, rapidly unwinding and rewrapping the tattered strip of fabric with less care than before. "Zhere."

Scout sat back, resting against the edge of the desk, straddling Medic’s lap in a way that the doctor was obviously not objecting to. Scout was gettin’ pretty far, actually, now that he thought about it. He’d wondered about Medic’s preferences for a while now, just never had any real proof of anything. Not that this counted as proof. Maybe the doc just liked his patients to stick real close to him like this. Didn’t mean anything. Sure didn’t mean Medic was interested in him, did it? Nah. “Thanks, doc.”

Medic smiled at him, a real genuine smile that made his eyes light up behind his glasses. Just then, a whole bunch of doves came fluttering down behind him. All that was missing was the heavenly chorus. “No, Scout. Zhank you." And just like that, the smile vanished. "But if you ever bring me a raccoon again, I will sedate you, sew you up in a punching bag, and give you to Heavy."

"Don’t gotta worry about dat, doc, the only raccoons around here are hats. Or in Soldier’s pockets, or somethin’. He wouldn’t actually cook ‘em." Scout reached for the cap, shoving it back onto his head the wrong way so the striped tail dangled down the side of his face. "Hey, dat’s a pretty unusual threat. You think dat one up just now, or save it for a special occasion? I like it. Real creative."

Against his better instincts, Medic was finding it impossible to stay angry at Scout, infuriating little creature that he was. He had to admit, Scout’s compassionate side had taken him almost completely by surprise. “It is vone of many zhreats I have at zhe ready. You don’t vant to find out zhe rest.” He gave Scout’s hand a quick squeeze, gloved fingers briefly interlocking with the runner’s bandaged ones before he let go. “Now go. I have vork to do.”

Scout whined in complaint, but didn’t need to be asked twice, lifting himself up from Medic’s lap. Wearing an enormous grin, he grabbed the plate and tray before he sauntered out — the table manners his ma had taught him were well ingrained into his brain. He ducked out the door, then leaned back into the room for a moment, throwing Medic a quick salute and a thumbs-up. “Seeya later, doc. I’ll bring ya coffee if ya want.”

"No need for zhat." Medic gestured to a small machine that sat at the side of the room, bubbling merrily and filling the room with fragrant caffeinated fumes. One of the doves pecked mindlessly at the stack of coffee filters. "I have it ready at all hours."

"Den I’ll bring ya dessert."

"Zhere isn’t any dessert served zhis veek."

"I don’t care. I’ll find somethin’."

"Don’t bozher."

"Naw. I’m comin’ back later, just wait and see. I’ll get somethin’ nice for ya. Bye Doc!" Scout tossed off a quick farewell and abruptly disappeared from the doorway, vanishing down the corridor with the patter of quick feet. Once he got far enough away that Medic couldn’t hear him, he let out a shout of triumph, slamming the door behind him and pumping his fist in the air.

Fuck yeah, he did it.

And Medic had held his hand. No way that was an accident. The Doc liked him, he knew it, he knew it since he caught Medic lookin’ at him all googly-eyed after he bashed in one of the enemy Soldiers’ skulls with that awesome new bat he got, the one you got if you drank 200 cans of Bonk and sent in all the promo codes.

Maybe he could even talk Medic into Oober-chargin’ him tomorrow.

\- - -

As for Medic, he sat at his desk, face in his hands, eyes shut.

He could not get rid of his smile.


End file.
